Thrill of the Hunt
by dbluewillow
Summary: A 1000-word character study: Agent 3 kills like she breathes—it's an automatic, smooth, and fundamental part of her being that warrants no extra thought.


**Inspired by _The Last Man_ , by Vince Flynn**

First things first, this work is not mine. It's an adaptation of a scene from Vince Flynn's novel, _The Last Man_. I love Flynn's no-nonsense writing style and wanted to practice creating my own scenes using his as a reference. I take no credit for anything here; I've only posted it because I am satisfied with the story it tells. The creative muscle behind this is all the late Vince Flynn's. Rest in peace, sir.

Now to address the story itself, this fic is a one-shot featuring my character from another Splatoon story. In _The Reluctant Hero_ , Agent 3 is Natalie Tilus, a plucky, talented, young athlete-turned-operative. She's just a kid, a chatty, bright-eyed optimist. I wanted to explore what sort of life she would live five, ten, twenty years down the line, after she's been at it for a while and seen the worst. What would our little kid look like after she's had to make hard decisions and live with their consequences? How would Nat fare in her continued dealings with death and deception?

I found my answer in one of Flynn's amazing action thrillers. While Agent 3 was never really much of a shrinking violet to begin with, turns out she's blossomed into quite the flower—a thorny, deadly, fearless flower.

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" _Though parted by the ocean deep,  
My oldest friend, we meet again.  
_ _I touch your face; you rouse from sleep._ "  
—Deep Sea Metro Mem Cake B16

 **Monday, 9:19 a.m.  
** **Mahi-Mahi Resort**

"Show me the courtyard," Natalie whispered to herself. As if on cue, the drone outside zoomed in on the gardens between the main house, the garage, and the three guesthouses. She could see a lone gardener tending to some plants, but other than that, no one was about.

As the truck pulled into the garage, Nat slid her smartphone into her vest pocket, gripped her machine pistol with both hands, and started her five-second count. That was how long she had given Eight from the time she parked the truck to open the back hatch. If that insider tried anything funny, then Nat would kill her and do things her own way: go in hot and shoot anything that moved. There was a click, and the hatch popped up. Light spilled through the narrow gap between the rear cargo cover and the tailgate. Nat could see Eight, and then she heard a voice.

Eight began talking to someone that Nat couldn't see. The conversation ended after about ten seconds and Eight lowered the tailgate. Nat slid out of the vehicle but stayed in a crouch while Eight closed the garage up. Eight then led her through the garage in the exact way she said she would. She opened a metal door at the other end and checked things out before continuing down a flight of stairs. Nat was right behind her as she punched a code into a door lock.

Next, they were in a long, well-lit tunnel and moving at a brisk pace. They stopped at a second door and, after Eight punched in another code, moved up a flight of stairs. Eight had Nat wait on the landing until she could get rid of the nurse.

Nat radioed Cole and told him that she was in, and he gave her the OK. A few seconds later, Nat heard the nurse moving down the hallway and the front door closing. She went up the last flight of stairs, where Eight was waiting for her.

Eight pointed down the hallway and with a nervous look said, "He has his pet Salmonid with him."

"The big ol' Cohock?" Natalie drawled.

Eight nodded. This wasn't Nat's first time dealing with those animals—massive, bitey shitheads with a good grip, extremely loyal once tamed. Nat stood at only five foot two herself, so even the smallest Cohock would be twice her size. Nat tightened her grip on her gun. She checked to make sure her radio was transmitting and said, "Stay out here and let me know if anyone shows up."

Eight did as she was told, and Nat started down the hallway, moving silently to the door at the far end. Eight had described the layout of the bedroom, but Nat had no idea where the Cohock was on the inside. She should have asked Eight, and she thought about going back for a brief second but was much too eager to keep moving. She opened the door with her right hand and stepped into the large, rectangular room, sweeping her gun right to left and back again. She heard the Cohock growl and put her sight on its massive head.

"He stirs, and I shoot," Nat said.

A pale hand grabbed at the Salmonid's collar. Nat saw Tim Ingila's fat face, his head at the foot of the bed. He was leaning over the footboard, lying pot-belly down and trying to calm the mutt. Without taking her aim off the large Salmonid, Nat spoke again in a tone devoid of emotion. "Howdy, Mister Ingila."

Tim couldn't manage to speak for a full six seconds. Then, the obese ex-agent began to stutter. "Y-Yes... Agent 3, thank the heavens that you're here."

"Zip it, Ingila."

"I-I can't believe you found me."

Nat's eyes continued to dart around the room, making sure that she didn't miss anything. "I reckon you're sweating like a sinner. You hired Eight to kill me and then thought you could fake your death and get away. No fooling me, no sirree."

"Tilus, I swear to y-you, this is all the general's fault. He abducted me, tortured me, and made it look like I was dead so you guys would stop looking for me." Tim kept his hand on the animal's collar, but shifted in place, clearly uncomfortable in his currently ass-up position.

"And then he done give your big pet back to keep you company," Nat remarked, scowling. "Right full of shit, Ingila. And too smart for your own good."

Nat kept coming back to the Cohock. She had nothing against the slobbering beast, but he had to go. Efficient as always, Nat squeezed the trigger and sent a single bullet into the Salmonid's head. The Cohock didn't make a sound.

But Tim did. He nearly lost it. "What have you done? Shimi hasn't done a thing!" he screamed as he jostled the Cohock's lifeless body. "You're a fucking heartless bitch!"

"And you're one sick fuck," Nat said calmly, approaching the bed. "Your own bodyguards are all dead, at least one of 'em by your own hand. Pearl and her father, sixteen cops, and Marina, but you don't shed a tear. Then someone kills your mutt and you throw a hissy fit."

Tim did not respond, evidently too devastated by the loss of his pet.

"Any last words?"

"Don't do this, Tilus. I-I can help you. I can still help the DPC. You can debrief me. I know things... very important things."

Nat supposed that he was right, but there was this little issue of trust. Tim Ingila and his big brain would be a nightmare for interrogators. Add to it the fact that his betrayal had gotten some good people killed, and the decision was easy.

"Fuck you, Ingila," Nat said, squeezing the trigger once.

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End file.
